


Long gone and fallen down but I'm loving how it taste

by the_scent_of_your_memory



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Bottom Louis, Crack, Facials, Hair-pulling, I'm Sorry, Love/Hate, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Sexual Frustration, Smut, Swearing, This Is STUPID, also, ehm, let's start with the, lot of that actually, oh god this is so weird, okay so, sooo very stupid, sort of, the tomlinshaw thirst is real, this doesn't make sense i'm really sorry, zayn is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1511879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_scent_of_your_memory/pseuds/the_scent_of_your_memory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Louis is obsessed with pizza, Zayn is obsessed with Louis, Liam and Harry are oblivious, Niall is--well. Niall</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long gone and fallen down but I'm loving how it taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [larrysecretsignal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larrysecretsignal/gifts).



> Oh my God this is the most stupid thing i've ever written and i keep saying this every time, what even is my life anymore. 
> 
> Okay so, i was in church for a funeral when i came up with the idea of this story, so this is quite telling of where my sanity stands right now. Or like, ever. I think you should bear in mind that most of these conversations really happened in reaL life with [Deb](http://http://zappydaddilou.tumblr.com/.tumblr.com/), love of my life, ass-eater and most annoying person i've had the disgrace to met. Love yoooou!
> 
> Thanks so bloody much to [Palosquared](http://http://palosquared.tumblr.com/) who reluctantly beta'd (ha, what a lie), held my hands throughout all this, and cheerleaded for me like always. I love you, you dirty little thing.
> 
> This story is for [Ruky](http://http://http://louiszayns.tumblr.com/.tumblr.com/) because she's obsessed with pizza and because zouis makes her ovaries tingle and because she's cute, so yeah.
> 
> I'm [poopydoopylou](http://http://poopydoopylou.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr

Louis thinks he’s in love the moment the guy starts rambling about how oregano was not in the original recipe of the Napoli’s margherita, how its strong perfume covers the wonderful taste of the tomatoes sausage and the delicacy of mozzarella, when the pizzaiolo asked “basil or oregano?” which-- _yeah._  
  
You can so blame that for how Louis’ dick twitches inside his pants and how he is seriously physically restraining himself from dropping to his knees in the middle of the pizzeria and shamelessly sucking the guy’s brain out of his dick and not even feeling a bit sorry because _fuck._  
  
Is he even allowed to go around with _that_ face?  
  
He must be hallucinating, like, definitely. Someone can’t simply be this beautiful and have the right to freely walk this planet without feeling any kind of regard for common mortals. Louis feels almost ashamed of existing, of sharing the same space and oxygen of this guy because either the weed Liam sold him is fucking great, or the guy’s face goes against every physical and biological rule he was aware of.  
  
And, I mean, he has bloody tattoos, scattered all over his smooth and olive skin, and—and _muscles_. Like, a fuck lot of them.  
  
How dare he?  
  
Louis knows he should also feel just a little bit ashamed for the boner he sports for the first five minutes he speaks with the guy and how at some point he blurts out “would you like to, you know, like, have my babies?” which is a tad forward and unreasonable, even for someone like Louis, who was born lacking a brain-to-mouth filter, decency, a bit of tact, and maybe a brain all-together to begin with.  
  
Which, somehow amends the brain-to-mouth filter thing, but not all the side effects a missing brain causes on a daily basis. As in, for example, to think it’s perfectly normal and socially acceptable to ask a stranger if he’s into foreplay with food, which, well, wasn’t actually meant to come out but again.  
  
Brain(missing)-to-mouth filter missing.  
  
Thank God the guy laughs it off and doesn’t take him too serious. Because like, Louis wasn’t, right?

RIght.  
  
He turns to quickly say something to Francesco, who’s the one in charge tonight to make Louis’ pizza, to then turning around and finding the guy still looking at him with a face that Louis could easily estimate as utterly charmed.  
  
Louis eyes the horrific Hello Kitty clock hanging just above the guy’s head where he’s leaning against the wall, a gift Louis gave Stefano a couple of years ago as a way to apologize for all the times he had stumbled drunk into the pizzeria demanding with imperious tone a bacon-salami focaccia – which has been claimed since the dawn of time to be the perfect remedy to hangovers. The problem is that he bought it he while he was drunk off his ass, and seeing it now, when sobriety makes everything less woah-look-at-this-Liam-it’s-so- _fabulous_ , he’s seriously considering stealing it away while no one’s looking and then set it on fire.  
  
It’s really too pink even for his gayness standards.  
  
The black-haired guy tilts his head at Louis curiously and Louis clears his throat, for not real reason. He prompts a brain-storming session to find some ideas for a new innovative and mind-blowing stuffed pizza as they wait for their own, as, strangely, tonight it’s taking more time than normally required.  
  
Sometimes the universe works in his favour, when it’s not attempting to ruin his life in extremely fascinating ways. Like two months ago when he was waiting in line at the checkout at Sainsbury and the nanny in front of him, after she eagerly and yet politely greeted him with a cute “hi”, turned around and died there on the spot. After two hours spent freaking out because they wouldn’t let him get out, the forensic police declared Louis was probably pregnant and that a yellow Smurf was the suspected murderer, so he was fucking finally allowed to leave.  
  
The fact he was with a high chance still amped up on coke from the night before, and there to buy five tubes of cookie dough he was planning on stuffing his mouth with, might be the reason why the whole thing might have gone a bit differently than he recalls.  
  
On a different note, focusing his attention back on the gorgeous boy still gazing at him interestedly, Louis should actually face the reality that it’s not like it is strictly essential and indispensable to have a specific and vast knowledge in the pizza field to be boyfriend material.  
  
And surely to assist the impellent and embarrassing crush Louis’s developing without control on the guy there are his chiselled cheekbones and fleshy lips that Louis would really like to feel around his dick, to see him all dirty, fused cheese dripping down his chin and lick it clean with his tongue and — _okay._ On a scale of one to _so not okay,_ this is a good twelve.  
  
This is so not the time to engage himself in a profuse and tedious descriptive digression about the beauty of fused cheese porn, a thing he indulges in quite often, like, once in a while—day—hour, _whatever,_ because there is a more imminent issue at hand. As in a very, very handsome guy who likes basil on margherita and who might be not yet ready to have Louis’ babies, but could possibly be interested in other pleasant and satisfying activities. Like, sharing orgasms.  
  
Or anything else which still requires the guy being naked and penises stuffed somewhere.  
  
He snaps out of his little mental bubble, realizing that he’s been going on a tangent for ten minutes about a really meticulous dissertation over why choosing black olives over green ones for the perfect Capricciosa, when he notices a hand shoved in front of him and a smile that spells _fondness_ with every crinkle around the guy’s eyes.  
  
“Zayn,” he says, a thick and Northen accent bleeds through his voice, deep and so bright Louis’ knees buckle a little. His dignity has reached worrying points. He should get check by like-- _someone._  
  
“Louis,” he responds, softly and with a noticeable delay, coercing his brain back into motion.  
  
His pizza is presented to him not even two minutes later and he has to school his face into something less pathetic and a bit cooler when he waves goodbye to the beautiful guy whose big hazel eyes are boring a gigantic hole through Louis’ head.  
  
   
  
That night he falls asleep thinking of Zayn.  
  
And double mozzarella pizza with wurstel and fries.  
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
The thing is, Louis doesn’t do pining,  
  
Because, for instance, he doesn’t even know the guy. If he’s married to a monkey and works as a murderer for the China’s governor, or if he is a necrophiliac with incontinence problems, or and worst of all – and Louis can’t even bring himself to consider _that_ possibility because it physically hurts his soul - if he’s not into penis. Which would kind of complicate things and makes the whole project infeasible to begin with.  
  
It’s just.  
  
Louis has never really let himself indulge in a relationship lately – as in, the last three and so years. In particular not since Greg dumped him after he busted on him getting in with his friend Russell, which, to be honest, says a lot about his and Greg’s thing – and how low Louis’ standards can get when the quantity of ethanol in his system reaches a certain level, that since summer ‘09 has been established the death point after which Louis starts making questionable decisions he can not be held responsible for.  
  
But it seems like he can’t really help it, and the fact that Zayn seems to be at Paolo’s every goddamned time Louis goes there – which is quite often - doesn’t help. Like, at all.  
  
Zayn doesn’t talk much, to be honest. He settles on listening eagerly to all the words vomit Louis ejects without a filter, he nods absent-mindedly like he’s actually interested, and Louis should be considering the idea that Zayn might be deaf. Because there is no rational explanation for how he keeps sticking around and looking like he’s physically starving for Louis’ attention.  
  
Things are getting kind of creepy on Louis’ part, in particular if you consider messages sent to Liam in the past few weeks which were incriminatingly a lot like _‘Do you think there’s any subtext in the phrase “see you later”??? x_ ’ or even _‘If I get his name tattooed on my arse cheek do you think he’ll catch on???_  
  
Lack of sleep, a dry spell that should definitely be burst, like, now, and years and years of friendship with Nicholas are turning him into a psychopath.  
  
But, I mean. He just wants to platonically wrap his dick around Zayn’s face, it doesn’t have to be anything serious. Like, there are tons of people who want to friendly fuck the living shit out of someone they are secretly madly in love with on a daily basis.  
  
   
  
The thing is, Louis is pining.  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
According to Louis’ pink journal, Zayn started stalking him precisely three weeks ago.  
  
Which is kind of funny considering that the stalking activity was the first thing Louis was planning on pursuing on the moment he came back home that first evening.  
  
It’s flattering really, extremely boasting for his already overflowing ego. It’s actually nice to go to do the grocery and spot Zayn hiding behind a stack of tomatoes cans or his quiff poking out from the fruit counter at the market.  
  
And yeah, the concept of hiding doesn’t go well with the whole seeing-Zayn thing, but _semantics_ , really  
  
The only tiny little defect, it’s that once the hiding thing is put aside in favour of less creepy form of interactions, Zayn makes public demonstration of this very annoying habit of never shutting up, talking about things that Louis is sure would be extremely interesting if he were able to look at his face and not imaging sitting on it for indeterminate amount of hours. Which is kind of unfortunate because going around at Tesco with a hard-on is not really comfortable, in particular since Zayn still refuses to put his mouth to better use and solve the problem.  
  
Evidently Zayn is simply not interested in fulfilling Louis’ dream of having Zayn’s mouth around his cock or anywhere on his body, which would serve both purposes of shutting him the fuck up and getting laid in what feel like bloody ages.

But Zayn is funny and very much charming, and he likes basil on his pizza and does things like going around with low-cut tanks top and skinny jeans like he has the fucking right to, so maybe Louis can go past it.  
  
Louis can do this. He can be friends with Zayn Malik.  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
Louis is not sure he can be friends with Zayn Malik.  
  
No, okay. That’s highly incorrect.  
  
He’s sure _as fuck_ he can’t - and doesn’t want to either, for what matters – be friends with Zayn Malik.  
  
Because Zayn Malik is a mean piece of crap, who thinks it’s funny and totally socially acceptable to whisper obscenities into Louis’ ear in the most unfortunate places and then do absolutely nothing to fix the mess he causes.

  
Like that Sunday morning they were wandering around at Sainsbury’s to fetch something to nurse their hangovers, woken up grumpy and with an elephantine head-ache, and Zayn walked behind an unaware Louis - innocently pondering through a very accurate mental functional flow block diagram whether to buy Cheerios or Choco Pops - shoved him and cornered him against the aisle, and murmured “I wonder if you’d let me pull your air when you suck me off. You’d let me come down your throat, wouldn’t you?” He pulled off him and walked to the cashier, looking like the pure epitome of serenity, all while Louis was mentally digging a very deep hole into the floor to shove his head in forever and die for the embarrassment.  
  
Or like that evening when they were by Liam’s to play at the Xbox, and after far too many beer cans were consumed and abandoned on the rudely fluffy carpet, Zayn very unceremoniously straddled his lap, doing a great job of pressing his dick against Louis’s growing one, leant down and breathed out “I bet you’d look amazing with your pretty lips stretched around my dick. I want to see those pretty blue eyes getting watery staring up at me when you choke on my cock because you are my little slut and you want to be good for daddy,” which leaded to Louis coming in his pants and doing absolutely nothing to stifle the groan he let out when Zayn kept rubbing his hand on his sensitive dick.  
  
So yeah. Zayn _is_ somehow doing something to fix the mess he makes, but absolutely anywhere near how Louis would like him to. Like, with far more clothes off and possibly without an audience drunkenly snoring and drooling on the armchair beside them.  
  
And definitely with bum stuff. _Lot_ of bum stuff.  
  
He considers himself victim of an acute case of uncomfortable cognitive dissonance, which identifies in Louis not knowing whether he wants more to kill him, in ways that probably once analyzed by a shrink will definitely lead to him locked up in a padded room, or to ravish him against a wall till he doesn’t remember his own name.  
  
Everything kind of starts spiralling down and down from there on, Zayn’s merciless teasing becoming always more and more unforgiving and cruel, reaching its highest point the night Louis and Nick were waiting for him in the car, and not only he was late, but he showed up sucking on a fucking lollypop, staining his fleshy lips with red slickness, making them look wet and glossy and absolutely pornographic and _fuck_. Louis literally was at the verge of bursting crying for the unbearable need to come. Possibly all over Zayn’s tears-streamed face, just to spite him, please.  
  
Louis should be considering charging Zayn with sexual harassment, with the aggravating of being fucking _recidivous_ , for at least the five thousandth time this week. There must be a law against sexual frustraters, which he’s not sure is a word but it definitely should.  
  
-  
  
Louis has to wait three more extenuating weeks before Zayn’s _inadvertent_ teasing actually brings forward results.  
  
He wakes Tuesday morning to find Zayn perched on the windowsill of his room with a mug of coffee cradled in his ink-stained hands and a look on his face that Louis thinks would suit perfectly a serial killer ready to slowly sink the dagger in his victim’s carotid or something equally terrifying. His quiff is offensively hanging loosely over his forehead, sleepy and fluffy and so soft-looking hair that makes Louis almost forget that Zayn is definitely not supposed to know where Louis lives and consequently be there.  
  
“Hi there cutie,” Zayn drawls, stirring his coffee with what suspiciously looks like a picklock and— _shit_. He’s dreaming right? Like, he must have died and now he’s in a permanent coma, because Zayn did not just bust into his house, made himself coffee and then sat there watching him sleep like it was the most normal thing someone can manage this early in the morning.  
  
When Zayn sees that Louis is just staring blankly at him – because if he forces his brain to react properly he’s not sure he can be responsible for the consequences - he pops down the windowsill, sits on the bed and stares lovingly at Louis. “Have you ever been eaten out before? I’ll have you know, I’ve been told--“  
  
Louis lunges forward and clamps his hand around Zayn’s mouth. Zayn looks worriedly up at him with wide eyes as if Louis were about to kidnap him, which is kind of ridiculous because the simple idea of voluntarily sharing time together with this idiotic creep is _so_ not going to happen.  
  
“Shut up,” Louis says in a low voice, hearing the exasperation tinging his voice. “For fuck’s sake, just _shut up_. I’m going to take off my hand, will you please stop talking?”  
  
Zayn nods obediently and Louis sighs heavily, dropping his hand. Not matter how much he hates Zayn Malik, Louis is not interested in knowing how good he is at eating people out, in particular when it’s other people and Louis doesn’t even know what Zayn’s lips taste like.  
  
Something he plans on fixing very soon.  
  
“You seem stressed, do you want some meth? Or I could suck you off.”  
  
Louis drops his head into his hands and groans loudly. This—this is the karma backfiring him straight in the ass for when he broke Nick’s Ipod and blamed Liam. Bloody _fucking_ karma.  
  
When Louis pushes Zayn into the mattress and kisses him, it is not a soothing forehead kiss, or a good morning peck on his lips. It’s a full-on, _hello, next stop’s my hand on your dick_ kiss. He kisses him with such a frenzy and urgency he feels dizzy, head spinning and everything bloody burns. Because if he lets his brain catch up on what he’s doing, he might go through a minor breakdown, and he has things to do right now, as in, suck Zayn’s bottom lip inside his mouth and bask in the moan he lets out uncontrollably as he works his hips down on him.  
  
Everything that occurs from there on is sort of a blur.  
  
There are just fragments of memory that rush back to him of clothes ripped off of each other and frantic bodies grinding against one another in a haste that Louis couldn’t fully understand, but didn’t deter him from leaning down and sucking countless bruises on Zayn’s butterscotch skin.  
  
What he remembers perfectly, though, is how Zayn fingered him open for half an hour before he finally let Louis come. How, after they both rode out their orgasms, Zayn sprawled out beside him, he fell asleep in his arms with an unsettling feeling of safety in his chest that dissipated as soon as he woke up four hours later in an empty bed and the fading scent of Zayn’s clinging to the sheets, just to find the kitchen on fire and Zayn nonchalantly eating _his_ cornflakes on the floor with _his_ come drying up on his cheeks.  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
So, they have been kind of dating for the past two months.  
  
Nothing serious, really. They are just mutually invested in exclusively giving each other pleasure in the form of orgasms and cuddles when considered opportune by both parts.  
  
Okay, this is a bit of a lie, because the amount of time they have been spending together eludes what the sterile definition of _friends with benefits_ entails. And surely what Louis is starting to feel for Zayn is totally against the deontology of the perfect fuck buddy.  
  
Something which is starting to frighteninglyassume the physiognomy of what Louis is pretty sure people normally call _love,_ or something else Louis ignores the existence of as a basic rule.  
  
Louis stoically dismisses the whole thing and degrades it to mere infatuation and a bit of healthy obsession.  
  
Which---yeah. _Healthy._  
  
He should focus on something more important, like on picking up an outfit for tonight and mentally preparing himself to meet Zayn’s friends, which in Zayn’s personal opinion constitutes a natural step in the development of the inner dynamics of a couple, which is something that obviously they are not but Louis will not surely point that out.  
  
He enters the club an hour and half later, jeans so tight his balls are begging for mercy and a quiff so high Nick can shove his own straight into his anus. Liam’s hand is clasped with his own and there is this buzzing feeling creeping under his skin as the fast-rhythm music starts pumping through his bloodstream. They find three vacant stools by the counter and Louis promptly sits on one of them, ordering a beer for Liam and G’n T for himself, hoping it will help to take the edge off the worry crawling painfully at the pit of his stomach.  
  
He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous. There’s no real need to, seriously. It’s not like Zayn’s some sort of freak that might lash out in public and fish out of his pocket a tommy-gun and perpetrate a slaughter in the club for no apparent reason.  
  
Except for how, like, he kind of is.  
  
He spots Zayn beside an unruly mop of curls on top of a dimple-cheeked boy with another lad with floppy blond hair who, if Louis recalls correctly from Zayn’s nonsensical rambles, should be Niall.  
  
He squeezes Liam’s hand and walks over to them, saying his preys in his head to Superman and all the good people up there and makes his way through the throngs of people crowding the club. Zayn eyes suspiciously their hands tied together - a look Louis is getting fond of since it started to appear always more often lately - and as soon as Louis is within reach, Zayn tugs him towards himself and smashes their mouths together in a bruising kiss.  
  
Louis can easily pick up the flavor of possessiveness hiding in the after taste of Zayn’s mouth, which is extremely arousing on a level that should be embarrassing, really, but Zayn’s hands are pressing hard against his jaw and his mind goes momentarily blank.  
  
They detach as soon as the retching noises emitted by someone in the nearby rush to their ears and become too loud to ignore. Zayn looks properly flushed, quiff almost flopping down onto his forehead and pupils blown out, and Louis just wants to drag him in a bathroom stall and lick every single centimeter of his sun-kissed skin.  
  
When he catches his breath again, he takes a step back and watches as the other three guys shake hands and make their own presentation.  
  
Liam and Harry shake hands for what seems like ten minutes, both of them smiling at each other like they’ve just found the end of a fucking rainbow or something extremely profound. Louis looks sceptically at Zayn, who rolls his eyes dramatically, making Louis laugh.  
  
“I feel like,” Niall supplies with a tentative tone, “they are virtually masturbating each other in front of us and I can’t do nothing to stop it,” which is exactly what Louis was going to say, in words definitely less eloquent and appropriate for the current surrounding but meant to make the same point anyway.  
  
“This is gross,” Louis says loudly, eyeing disgustedly the heart-eyes twinkling on Liam’s puppy face. When none of those two seems intent to tear their eyes away from each other, Louis slaps a hand on Liam’s head and says “hey, can you stop eye fucking him in front of me? I feel violated.”  
  
Liam shoots him a look with something a lot like a challenge in his eyes - or a lot like ‘I know where your mouth has been” - and, right.  
  
“Aww, is Tommo jealous?” Liam bites back, but Louis can hear the fondness hiding in the harshness in his voice.  
  
Louis doesn’t argue. He pouts instead, arms crossed over his chest. “You are contractually obligated to love me and I thought we were exclusive.”  
  
A smug grin creeps on Liam’s face as he moves closer to Louis. He closes his arms around Louis, murmuring “you are so cute” against his air as he kisses Louis’ forehead.  
  
“Eww. This is non-consensual cuddling—ugh, stop Liam, I know you are obsessed with me but this is embarrassing.”  
  
When Liam finally lets go of him – no one can simply just resist him, God forgive them – he straightens his shirt and fixes Harry with a curious look. There is something weird about him, a constant cheerfulness that seems almost fake and that bloody dimple makes Louis want to kiss all over his stupid cute face.  
  
Stupid Harry.  
  
Also, he’s wearing a pair of jeans that looks a lot like they’ve gone through hell and back, ripped at the knees and colour considerably dulled, and an awfully flowery shirt that should definitely be buttoned up a bit more for Louis’ liking.  
  
He leans conspiratorially towards Zayn and whispers “why does he dress up like that?”  
  
“He thinks he looks cool” Zayn whispers back, and the fact that he didn’t even have to ask who Louis was talking about says a lot.  
  
Louis looks considering at Harry, his face distorts into something definitely not appreciating. “He looks like a ragamuffin.”  
  
Zayn sighs, nodding in understanding, or maybe just in resignation. “No one has still had the courage to tell him.”  
  
Yeah, Louis can definitely relate. In the infamous period when Liam let his unruly hair outgrown, no one had it in them to look at his puppy face and tell him he totally looked like he had a mop on his head. Thank God he finally came to his sense and cut it. It was horrendous.  
  
He brings his glass to his mouth and realizes it’s now empty. He pouts at it, hoping maybe it will feel ashamed and fill itself by sheer will power. With an exaggeratedly sad face, he turns around and orders another drink. The strains of Saturday nighters, eh.  
  
“Isn’t that Gregory getting his face sucked?” Liam pipes up over the rim of his almost finished beer.  
  
Without even raising his eyes to properly check whether it was him or not, he mumbles “hope he gets terminal diarrhea and dies. Painfully,” nodding solemnly, taking a loud sip from his Vodka Tonic.  
  
It’s not like he hates Greg because he did something bad to Louis – if you don’t count when he went around campus telling everyfuckigone what a slut Louis was because, apparently, getting fucked in the bedroom of your boyfriend’s flat with your boyfriend’s best friend and getting busted while at it by aforementioned boyfriend makes you automatically fall into that category.  
  
It’s just that Louis hates Greg.  
  
And for the record, he was not getting fucked. He was graciously bouncing onto his dick like the real gentleman he is, mmhmh.  
  
Niall turns to look where the two boys are pointing, then physically startles. “Who, Greg? I thought he was straight.”  
  
Louis snorts. “Tell my ass that,” he comments, because everything could be said about the size of Greg’s brain, but his dick had been source of terrible nightmares for Louis for _months._ His sore bum didn’t like Greg very much.  
  
Even though it definitely did.  
  
Liam smirks like he always does when he’s going to say something extremely annoying just to piss Louis off. The result is not surprising at all. “Oh c’mon. Everybody knows you took far bigger things up your—“  
  
“So, _Harry!_ What do you do for a living?” he cuts Liam off harshly, attempting to bring both his friends and husband-to-be back to more appropriate things.  
  
Harry has to literally tear his eyes away from Liam, and Louis is pretty sure there’s drool pooled at the corners of his mouth. How people can be sexually attached by Liam will always be a mystery to Louis. It must be the biceps.  
  
Definitely the biceps.  
  
Harry wipes a hand over his mouth and _yeah_. Drool. “I’m, huh—I work at a bakery?”  
  
“Are you asking me?” Louis asks with his voice dripping sarcasm, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead.  
  
“No, no I mean. I work at a bakery, yes,” he says, this time around more convinced and with a firm nod to empower the whole statement. “And you?” Harry asks back, looking utterly interested in whatever Louis might spit out as an answer.  
  
Louis has just few seconds to panic before the metaphorical light bulb takes life and enlightens the path for the word vomit which is on its way to be thrown out from Louis’ mouth. “I suffer from a physiological and pathological lack of conformism, which does not manifest itself in a mere refuse of the working act but rather as a propulsion to let my ego freely unfold in eccentric and unconvetional forms, without the shackles of the fascist social system that imposes itself to coerce it to conform to a preordained social praxis.” He nods, in a firm and resolute motion in what he hopes suggests pure and unfaltering conviction.  
  
He doesn’t know the meaning of half the words he just said, but he’s definitely certain most of them do exist because he’s pretty sure he heard his history teacher or someone on the telly saying them a bunch of times.  
  
If there were a visual definition of ‘confusion’, Harry’s face in this precise moment would probably be perfect to suit it. Louis might be a little in love with him.  
  
“Uhm--,” Harry mumbles, supposedly hoping to gain time to come up with something to say to fill the awkward silence metaphorically looming over the extremely loud music playing and clearly failing.  
  
“What he’s trying to say,” Liam supplies with his annoyingly prig tone, “is that he’s jobless and without a purpose in life,” he finishes and _thank you very much mate._  
  
Louis calmly puts down his drink and fixes Liam with a stoically schooled face. “First, you are an asshole. Two, you are an asshole. Three--” he stops long enough to burp loudly at Liam’s face then, “four, I don’t remember, but I think it was something a lot like _fuck you_ , Liam!”  
  
I mean, _friends._  
  
Louis is so going to abrogate their friendship, to instead adopt the Irish jumping little monkey that goes on the name of Niall and that for Louis’ liking ensures far more entrainment than Liam and Harry can provide by sucking each other’s mouth off.  
  
Which, _ewww._  
  
Louis is gay but not gay enough for that.  
  
He’s bailed out of the awkward situation when Zayn takes his hand and drags him on the dance floor, which is proven to be a valuable solution that serves both purposes of forgoing seeing Liam’s tongue anywhere involved with Harry’s, and rubbing his bum on Zayn’s crotch, which like, _wow,_ how did that happen?  
  
There’s this situation he’s finding himself in that’s getting a bit too uncomfortable in his opinion, where his pants are getting tighter and tighter with each song that keeps changing, a drown out noise that wraps around their sweaty bodies as they grind against one another with frantic and desperate movements.  
  
Louis hums low in the back of his throat in approval, sucking hungrily on his own lip. A fire soon begins to course through him, the blaze settling low in his stomach, every thrust of the older boy’s hips sending a burst of warmth up through his body. Zayn bits the column of his neck and Louis can’t take this anymore, needs to fucking do something, something that should definitely have to do with _fucking,_ like, now, here, because he can’t, he just bloody can’t.  
  
Zayn seems to be on his same page, because as soon as Louis turns around to beg him to shag him into oblivion, Zayn bites his bottom lip and pants against his mouth “I want to fuck you so hard Lou,” and yep, Louis is going to come in the middle of a dance floor.  
  
Thank God it only takes few more minutes of Louis moaning inside Zayn’s ear for him to first Louis’ shirt and literally drag him to the toilets and then delicately shove him into an empty stall. Louis has barely the time to get his baring back together before Zayn drops to his knees and tugs him out of his pants.  
  
Jesus _fucking_ Christ.  
  
When Zayn’s wet mouth slides down Louis’s dick, his brain literally starts to fry up and fuse inside his skull. Zayn’s hand fists around the base as he carefully flattens his tongue against the vein running across the underside and sinks down, laboured breaths rushing out of his nose.  
  
Louis brings a hand down to poke at Zayn’s hollowed cheek, pressing down against it. He can feel the slide of his cock against his thumb and – fuck – it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever felt. Zayn leans into the touch, nuzzling his face into Louis’ hand as much as he can with his mouth still stuffed full of cock.  
  
“Fuck fuck fuck— _Zayn_ ,” he pants as Zayn sinks further down and literally swallows him up.  
  
If Louis was currently in any kind of state to be observing the technique, he’d notice how Zayn is able to deepthroat him like a fucking porn star without even blinking an eye, but he is more concerned with how Zayn’s throat is spasming around him and his nose is brushing against his lower stomach.  
  
Rational thought is so démodé.  
  
Louis threads his hands through Zayn’s corvine hair, lightly pressing the pads of his fingers into his scalp. Zayn hums again in pleasure as he closes his eyes, the vibration sends a spark of pure want down Louis’s spine. He lets his fingers sweep through once more and then yanks, harder than he’d meant to, tugging Zayn off his cock, basking in the groans that rumble their way out of Zayn and reverberated in the tiny grimy room. Zayn’s eyes fly open as he gasps, moaning noisily and bringing one of his hand down to curve around his clothed erection.  
  
“What the - _nnngh_ \- what the fuck, Zayn,” he gasps out, biting his lip as one of Zayns’s hands picks up where his mouth left off. _“God_.”  
  
Zayn’s cheeks are flushed, eyes big and glassy, and he looks dazed and unfocused, absolutely filthy with the little a string of saliva that stretches from his bottom lip to Louis’ cock, something Louis’s so willing to commit to his poetical memory in candid details.  
  
"Fucking hell," he mutters as he rubs his thumb over Zayn’s fleshy lower lip, swollen ad bitten-raw, smoothing the wetness across, mixture of spit and pre-come. Zayn’s tongue darts out to lap at it gently, taking it inside his mouth and sucking at it meticulously like he is doing it with a purpose, and Louis is _done._  
  
He tugs Zayn back down to his cock, pressing him down as quickly as he can, alcohol making everything more intense and sharper at the edges. Zayn moans and presses his head against Louis’ hand, as if begging for him to take the lead, giving him permission to move. Louis twists his fingers through his hair and tugs Zayn’s head down and up in messy, fast-paced motion. Zayn’s moaning uncontrollably like he’s actually getting off on being used and just when Louis thinks this can get any hotter, Zayn locks his wrists together behind his back and, _holy Mother of God,_ what the fuckity fuck is this guy?  
  
“Yeah, baby, you look so good like this,” Louis rasps, staring at how obscenely Zayn’s lips are stretched around him, at the mess of saliva pooled around and threatening to drool down his chin.  
  
Zayn draws off, the entire length of his spit-slick cock reappears out of Zayn’s wet mouth, and thumbs mercilessly over the head of Louis’s dick until Louis can’t speak anymore. “Yeah?”  
  
Fuck, his voice is _wrecked._ “Y-Yeah.”  
  
Louis starts to messily hitch his hips up with every downward push of Zayn’s head until he’s carelessly fucking Zayn’s mouth, movements getting sloppy and unfocused as he feels his orgasm approaching. Zayn just takes it, hooded eyes locked on Louis’dazed ones, nostrils flaring as he struggles to breathe as Louis comes down his throat without a warning.  
  
He doesn’t know how they even manage to get to Louis’s flat, somewhere between slamming face-first against a lamppost after drunkenly getting out the club and Louis giving Zayn a road-head while he was driving he must have lost his damn mind and everything even remotely attached to it.  
  
The only problem – and Jesus Christ why there always has to be one - is that as soon as they stumble into Louis’ flat, Zayn flops lifeless onto the bed with his clothes still on and shows no intentions at all to be a good boyfriend—blowjobs giver— _whatever._ The point is that he’s being useless for the issue at hand, which happens to be Louis’ dick going to explode if Zayn doesn’t put his mouth at work.  
  
Louis wants to die. “Are you serious right now?”  
  
The answer comes clearly delayed and mumbled against the pillow, but sounds suspiciously a lot like “I’ll make it up to you when I get up, I promise, just need to sleep right now. You’ll get your blowjob, don’t be sad.” And with that, Zayn closes his eyes, going quiet.  
  
Louis can’t believe this is happening.  
  
“Is this when you tell me you are joking right?”  
  
Zayn starts to snore.  
  
   
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
Zayn does make it up to Louis.  
  
He wakes up with a head-ache pounding behind his eye-lids and Zayn’s warm mouth around his half-hard dick, which he keeps on sucking for other ten minutes after Louis has come down his throat, proceeding with stretching himself open with two slicked fingers and then serenely sinking onto Louis’ dick and bouncing on it like it was something he usually does first thing in the morning.  
  
It’s--nice, really. Louis keeps thinking he’s in a dream or something for the first 40 minutes or so, and promptly changes idea when Zayn, after Louis’ second orgasm, doesn’t seem to want to stop any time soon, gathering his own come on Louis’ stomach, coating thoughtfully his fingers and then pushing them inside Louis, which—okay, still nice. Still very, very nice. _Fuck._  
  
If he’s going to die for sexual exhaustion, well. Bring it on.  
  
His cock is, somehow, filling again, fattening up against his flushed belly. Louis thinks there must be some kind of leak in the conditioning system of pheromones or something like that. Something that has to explain why he’s getting hard again after—Louis’s lost count. Too many orgasms to be even remotely okay. There’s physical limits that should be encoded somewhere, like. Somewhere important that Louis’ s sure already exists but his brain is on loop with zaynzaynzayn and he can’t bloody _think._  
  
And to add sexy insult to obscenely pornographic injury, Louis realizes Zayn has still yet to come again, lips bitten raw and cock so hard it must hurt, so intent in making it up to Louis that he must have forgotten about himself.  
  
Louis blames it on Zayn. On Zayn, and his lips and his hands, and most of all his cock, which, _shit—fuck_ , feels so good inside him, when he comes five minutes after having had Zayn’s dick rubbing against his prostate every time he drags it in and out of him in a restless and unforgiving path.  
  
When Zayn finally comes, is with Louis’ name in his mouth and a handful of Louis’ hair fisted in his hand.  
  
Louis tucks his head in the crook of Zayn’s neck, body spent and just on the nice side of sore. He doesn’t think he will ever be able to move, the mere thought makes him dizzy. But his stomach doesn’t seem to be on the same page, if the aborted sounds it’s emitting are anything to go by.  
  
"Okay, new plan. You ready?"  
  
"Does it involve coming out from under this duvet?" Zayn asks dubiously, pushing his face further against the pillow.  
  
Louis sits up, with the duvet on his shoulders like a cloak. "Well, yes. Briefly."  
  
"Veto," says Zayn as he rolls on the mattress and wraps himself around the duvet.  
  
Louis raises it a bit, peeks inside through a tiny hole of the fluffy fortress Zayn bundled himself in and pleads “can we go have breakfast and then I’ll cry to you a bit and tell you how much I hate and you’ll believe that?”  
  
Zayn,. in lieu of an answer, disappears under the covers and starts biting every inch of Louis’ naked body, brushing his tongue over the bruised skin after every bite.  
  
Food seems suddenly inexplicably so _overrated._  
  
They don’t end up getting out of that bed at the end, but all things considered, Louis is pretty satisfied with the outcome anyway.  
  
He arrives late for brunch with Nick, showing no shame in the wobbly and embarrassing limp characterizing his gait, who doesn’t even try not to look pissed. The bruises scattered on Louis’ neck and collarbone are proven to serve the perfect pretext to take the piss out of him for a whole of twenty minutes, which ends up to be only the beginning of it.  
  
“Do you think he’s probably anthropophagous?”  
  
Nick flicks the ash of his fag on the pavement and looks thoughtfully at Louis. “Maybe he has porphyric hemophilia and he’s just slowly and politely introducing you to his lifestyle.”  
  
Louis sighs dramatically. He loves him too much to even remotely fair. He doesn’t think, though, that you can’t trust “Skyrim” for an accurate prognosis.  
    
He fishes his phone out of his pocket and types a quick _did curly boy pop your cherry?_ to Liam, who in practice is definitely not a virgin, but in theory he bloody hell is, and then sinks further on his chair.   
  
“Do you remember the first time I told you I loved you?”  
  
It was pretty romantic, to be honest. Like, one of those really heartwarming and cute memories he treasures deep inside his heart. Well, it was, if you fail to consider--  
  
“While you were throwing up inside my letter box and how you felt was not the only thing you were letting out of your mouth? Yeah I remember. Reece the postman wanted to sue me for something I’m still not able to fully grasp and I stopped receiving my post since then.”  
  
Maybe not so romantic.  
  
The cute girl at the counter brings them their coffees and a tiny steaming milk jug. He picks it up and starts pouring its content inside his cup, watching it overflow from the rim and pool messily on the table with absolute calm.  
  
Nick’s watching him worriedly and just on the right side of cautious. “Are you alright?”  
  
Louis puts the empty milk jug down and shakes his head without a real purpose. “Do you think too much sex can cause decerebration?” he asks, because there really is no other explanation for how Louis’ brain seems to have fallen into a sudden dormancy.

  
“Have you checked when you came for the _eighth_ time whether it actually was sperm what came out of your dick and not a case of cerebrospinal fluid rrhea?”

  
Having friends who graduated in medicine sucks for so many reasons he’s almost afraid to count them. They rub off of you always in the wrong way and hypochondria is only the first step of the ladder which leads you straight to madness. The fact that he even knows what Nick’s talking about should definitely worry him more than it already does.

  
“Isn’t it supposed to leak from the nose?”

  
“I guess. But don’t worry, if by dinner time you are still not dead then you should be fine,” which like, sounds very reassuring, _really_.  
  
This is the universe conspiring against him in the form of beautiful guys who turn out to be even funny, clever and very, very good in the activity of giving people far more orgasms that one’s body is able to recover from, which Louis thinks Zayn should definitely write in his CV.  
  
Or at least as a twinkling warning on his forehead.  
  
_  
  
   
  
With Liam and Harry coming to terms with the fact their relationship was reaching an embarrassing and seriously unhealthy point with how it was still stuck on a primordial phase of a mere and innocent crush -which empirically was a massive bullshit considering how many times (read: too many) Liam had been rambling about marriage and babies names late at night when Louis was too drunk to do something proper to shut it him up (read: punch him in the face or stuff his mouth with his stinky socks)- and finally coming to the realization that snogging the living shit out of each other was a far more effective way to make it evolve into something socially more acceptable than the sexual frustration radiating from them both, they decided that a lovely dinner all together was a great idea.  
  
What the main course would be is not even option, not when Louis is present or anywhere involved with the preparation.  
  
Louis was officially banned from within a five foot radius of the kitchen stove since The Great Fire of 2009, unless it’s for putting away the shopping or unloading the dishwasher. Not that Louis’s much better where the laundry is concerned - there was that one time where an extremely backed Louis loaded his dirty clothes into the dishwasher - but they stopped talking about that a long time ago after extremely efficient death threats. So, he simply takes lead of conducting surveillance operations for the preparation and filling of the pizza with precise and accurate diligence. Pizza is not something you should approach carelessly. It takes a lot of attention and care for details.  
  
Because the good coming of the pizza, in terms of softness of the dough, crispiness of the crust, and sensuality of melted cheese, constitute the basic criteria for the identification of a good partner  
  
Because Louis has priorities. Essential and absolutely non-negotiable.  
  
He pads into the living room with Harry trailing behind him where the other two lads seem to be intent in doing _something_ he can’t really place.  
  
“Are we really doing the intentions talk?” a very grinning Zayn asks, “because I’m not really sure you want to know what I intend to do to him tonight,” he hears Zayn say as he dodges the couch and walks to the coffee table to put the beers down.  
  
Liam points a spoon at Zayn’s throat and attempts failing miserably to look angry. “I’m gonna kill you with this myself if you don’t shut up and answer me.”  
  
“Not to be punctilious, but I can’t answer you if I have to shut up.”  
  
The phone thrown at Zayn head from the other side of the room in Louis’ opinion was meant to be the perfect incentive to shut him up, which turns out to be rather effective. Louis files this information somewhere in his brain for future references and grins.  
  
“Okay, okay. I, Zayn Malik, swear on…” he trails off, eyes the book on the counter, then, “on the instructions booklet of the microwave oven--” he hipccups, then continues, ”that I will cherish and love Louis with every mean I dispose of, that I will--”  
  
“Okay, okay, okay shut up. We got it. Now stop.”  
  
Niall busts into the tiny flat a bit later, baring a lot of beer and what looks suspiciously like a pie dish of tiramisù. “A man after my heart this one,” Louis says winding an arm around Niall’s shoulder, kissing his flushed cheek and promptly running to the drawer to get a spoon.  
  
As soon as his lips close around the spoon, he does actually _moan_ , low and deep in his throat, because _goddammit_ this thing is so freaking good. “Oh Ni. I’m literally two spoons away from dropping to my knees for you right here,” which earns him a murderous glare from Zayn and a scolding face from Harry, who’s currently chopping the mozzarella into little cubes on the wooden counter in the kitchen.  
  
“You’ve done it for less,” Liam mutters, not very kindly, as he opens a beer can and takes a long sip.  
  
Louis politely disagrees by throwing an innocent apple at Liam’s stupid head.  
  
“Liam, I’m going to tell everybody about what happened in Cardiff if you don’t shut your mouth.”  
  
Niall looks suddenly extremely interested. He moves closer, leans conspiratorially to Louis and asks “what happened in Cardiff?”  
  
“Nothing, but I’ll come up with something, and people will believe me,” he says, and they both nod at each other in a gesture of tacit complicity.  
  
“Oh c’mon Lou, there’s nothing wrong with being a slut. I mean, after all, we wouldn’t have become friends if you hadn’t been one,” Liam says, which is definitely true but not so the time to discuss about the dynamics and ubication of their first encounter.  
  
Louis resumes his previous ostentation of disagreement by throwing another poor apple, this time to Liam’s face, so maybe the message is clearer.  
  
And like, even shrugging off the logical consequence of facts which could be summed up in Liam walking in on Louis bent over the kitchen table wearing a very sophisticated pair of white lace panties in the precise moment when Zayn’s hand was falling down heavily on the already reddened skin of Louis’ bum, Louis believes it’s incorrect and highly non commendable of Liam to define, in terms rude and ill suited for the environment in which these words are uttered, Louis as a dirt cheap whore.  
  
Because Louis prefers to think of himself as a high-class prostitute, thank you very much.  
  
He levelly flips Liam off and keeps his resolution to stop being friend with him for the next ten minutes. Tops.  
  
They all sit eagerly around the table as Zayn cautiously places on it the delicious pizzas just taken out of the over, filling the kitchen with their heady scent.  
  
Louis is getting so hard in his pants he could die.  
  
He’s been shutting down the conversation flowing around him, more focused on the slice of 4 stagioni carefully folded in two and ready to be eaten, when he turns his attention to what Liam’s saying and immediately wishes he never did.  
  
“I’m just saying, there is a quantitative organic lack of extremely important scenes that the film director completely declassed to mere details or ignored all-together.”  
  
Zayn is so wrapped up around whatever the fuck they are talking about, that even when Louis taps his arm to get his attention, Zayn shoos him and keeps his eyes trained on Liam.  
  
Louis groans so loud it startles even himself, but since no one is still giving him the attention he surely deserves, he makes a great show of choking on a piece of pizza - which is not even there but - spluttering crumbs all over the table, then falling from the chair to tumble over the floor.  
  
Years wasted on his drama degree might be finally paying off.  
  
There are immediately hands shaking him, and when he opens his eyes, Zayn is staring down at him worriedly. “Zayn,” he calls feebly. “Zayn, please. Call the 911.” He pauses for dramatic effect then with a resolute tone says “I think I’m having a serious attack of terminal boredom.”  
  
Liam’s kick on his ribs comes before he can even fully finish the sentence, which is quite rude in Louis’ modest opinion, but then he glances up at Zayn’s fond expression, and he smiles in return and kisses him chastely on the mouth.  
  
The look Liam spares him for the rest of the evening could easily be described as unimpressed and highly not amused.  
  
Zayn, on the other hand—well.  
  
Zayn might be probably reconsidering the marriage idea.  
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
Zayn yawns loudly beside him, lazily rubbing both hands on his eyes. “God, this film sucked.”  
  
It has been established long time ago that Zayn has no taste in the cinematography field whatsoever – and he has to physically remind himself that he’s kind of in love with Zayn, so even though he fell asleep twice while watching Inception, he still can love him anyway. Maybe - so despite the few exasperated sighs, the only proper reaction is the little pinch Louis gives to Zayn’s hip.  
  
“Remind me why I keep you around?”  
  
“Because I have no gag-reflex?” and well yeah, yeah. That must be it. Probably. Surely.  
  
To be honest, he paid attention to the film only for Dicaprio and Cillian Murphy, and as consequence, for all the mighty impure images of a possible threesome that started to creep inside his brain as soon as his fourth beer was gulped down and his mind started to get a bit blurry. He carefully filed everything his brain came up with in his personal wank-bank for lonely nights that might come.  
  
As Liam puts in some game in the Xbox, Niall stands up, lazily scratches his stomach and says “gonna grab something to drink. You want some?”  
  
Zayn jumps on his feet eagerly, takes his fags out of his pocket and mumbles “coming with you.”  
  
Liam snuggles closer, nuzzles his face in the crook of Louis’ neck, and then sighs. Harry passed out on him an hour or so ago, legs draped over Liam’s on the couch. He started snoring just few minutes ago, though, which it’s sort of getting a problem.  
  
“Liam.”  
  
“Mh.”  
  
“I—I have to tell you something.”  
  
“Mh.”  
  
“Promise me you won’t laugh.”  
  
“Mh.”  
  
Loquacity might not be the best of Liam’s prerogatives when he’s playing at Skyrim. Louis learnt this long time ago at his expenses. Last time, he ended up pouring his broken heart to _Nicholas_ , who like, is allergic to the entire spectrum of human emotions and who ignores the meaning of compassion and the fact that the proper etiquette advises against laughing hysterically in the face of someone who’s clearly upset about Paolo’s being closed for the entire bloody weekend.  
  
“I think--” he trails off, scratching through his brain for words which won’t make him sound like a sap. He can’t. “I think I’m stupidly in love with Zayn.”  
  
“Mh.”  
  
Louis sighs, then “I discovered I’m positive.” Liam keeps playing, munching loudly on his pop-corns. “I have cancer. The doctor says he’s not sure I will make it to next month. I slept with your mother. I’m your _father_ , Liam.”  
  
“Mh.”  
  
Louis is not angry. But that doesn’t mean he can’t shout “Liam!” straight into his ear and then kindly stabs his stomach with a pillow.  
  
“Did you hear to a single word I said?”  
  
“Ehm, no?”  
  
“I’m in love with Zayn.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“I—I—okay?“  
  
“Oh, you wanted me to gasp and be all surprised?”  
  
Louis nods. Then pouts.  
  
“Mh, sorry. Can’t be arsed now. Oh _look_ , I just beheaded the boss!”  
  
Louis should definitely invest in new friends.  
  
Zayn shuffles back into the living room ten minutes later with a bowl full of cheesy nacos and a happy Niall skipping behind him. Zayn flops on the couch next to Louis, who promptly moves to plops messily over him and demands some cuddles.  
  
“Ugh, my bum is vibrating,” he laments at some point. It’s probably his phone, which got lost somewhere a couple of hours ago.  
  
Zayn rummages through the cushions and, once he finds it, he holds it up, thumbing over it to try to check the notifications. “It’s Nick. It says he woke up this morning at the hospital with the toilet seat glued to his head.”  
  
Harry makes an aborted sound against the cushions and mumbles “again?”  
  
Because _yep._ Nicholas became famous for his escapades while drunk off his ass. The outcomes are always kind of really hilarious, and very often a lot illegal.  
  
He sinks further against Zayn, literally sprawled lifeless over him as he winds both arms around his torso and keeps him pressed against himself.  
  
“Zayn, love, could you please go and bring me some ketchup?” he sweetly asks, shoving a handful of chips inside his mouth.  
  
“Why me?”  
  
Louis pouts, then mumbles “ketchup” again, using his endless cuteness in lieu of an actual answer.  
  
Zayn makes some sort of noises of protest against Louis’ neck, bites it hard enough to make him yelp.  
  
Louis turns around so he straddles him, leans closer, angles Zayn’s jaw up with firm fingers and gives him the dirtiest kiss he's capable of while smiling like a loon. He circles his hips for good measure, presses a light hand right to Zayn's dick, revels in the way his breath hitches. Then he pulls off.  
  
“Please.”  
  
He’s sure he shouldn’t feel smug when Zayn stands up with a dazed and spaced out expression, excuses himself saying “’m going to the kitchen” and walks straight into the bathroom door.  
  
But he does.  
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
Louis knows for a fact that very often when Liam calls him ‘a spoiled pompous self-righteous prick’ he might be a little bit exaggerating.  
  
You see, he and Liam have known each other for years now, well since they were both very young and very much stupid and met in a shitty gay club where their encounter ended up with embarrassingly quick and floppy handjobs in a alley and two drunk guys clinging to each other while wandering around the arse o’clock in the morning to find somewhere to sleep. They have been like thick and thieves since then, seen the worst and truest bits of one another, learnt little by little and often not so easily to love and accept their manias and their endless flaws. They slowly fell into each other, unfolding with extremely natural ease through their own routines, sinking deeper under each other’s skin, making home between each bone and juncture.  
  
As a consequence, Liam’s level of endurance of Louis’ annoying crap has gotten really, _really_ low, in particular in these last few years since hormones and the life-changing discovery of the wonders of penis made a mess of Louis’ little and innocent brain.  
  
Right now, though, Louis thinks Liam has never been more spot on.  
  
“Louis, are you listening to me?”  
  
Louis currently has his mouth stuffed with Zayn’s dick and is showing no intention in connecting his brain to the surrounding. So, no. He’s not listening, and has no intent to either. “No,” he manages, chocking a little bit as he sinks further down.  
  
Zayn sighs, and he must be really annoyed now. Louis can relate. Sometimes even he can’t stand himself. “Louis I know you are angry, but could you please look at me?”  
  
Louis would like very much to keep doing what he’s up to right now because he’s sure as hell if he were to use if mouth for other purposes, he’d would end up starting a fight and pull a tantrum, and things could go really downhill from there on.  
  
Because Zayn is right. Louis is fucking angry right now.  
  
They were out with the lads for some drinks and Louis felt insanely cuddly and he wanted nothing less than to share Zayn with someone else. But Zayn had been glued to Danny and Ant’s sides for the whole night and didn’t spare more than few words to Louis who, after two hours of violently pissing Liam off by throwing peanuts at his head, lashed out and literally dragged Zayn out of the club and inside his flat.  
  
And that’s why now Louis has Zayn shoved against a wall and there are tears teasing the rim of his eyes for the exertion of keeping Zayn deep inside while urging him to move to carelessly fuck his mouth.  
  
Someone might argue this is not be the best way to take the edge off his anger and to maturely work things out, but it is somehow still occupying his mind with something else other than the jealousy creeping in his chest and sitting heavy at the pit of his stomach.  
  
“Lou, fuck,” Zayn moans loudly, banging his head against the wall. Louis is doing something very nice with his tongue to distract him, which works for a while, but then Zayn regains some coherence and mutters “Lou, cane we talk?”  
  
Louis pulls out with an obscene pop, wipes a hand over his dripping mouth and with broken voice says “you’re _hotboxing_ my brain with your shit, ’m kind occupied here mate, got no time to talk now.”  
  
“Mate? _Mate_? I’m like—mate, Louis, really I—“  
  
Louis looks at him expectantly, just on the wrong side of petulant.  
  
“You know what? Fuck you Louis.” He pushes himself away from the wall and moves past Louis and around the messy bedroom to recollect his clothes, carelessly shoving them on. “I’m not up for booty calls every time you feel like it and you want a shag. Next time, why don’t you call your lovely _pizza_ instead of me,” he finishes with a mocking tone, pulling the most annoying face he could ever manage.  
  
Well, that was a really dumb no sequitur, if Louis was to be asked. “You know, I’ll do exactly that, so go fuck yourself Zaynie.”  
  
Zayn is tying the laces of his boots, crunched down on the floor, head hanging low. When he speaks again, Louis can’t see his face. “And maybe marry her and asks her to have your babies. Hundreds of them.”  
  
“Stop spitting at my face all the things we can’t do, you monster. Why are you trying to hurt me like this?”  
  
“Fuck you, Louis.”  
  
A heavy silence settles in the room, sharp-edged and unforgiving with all the things it’s trying to say.  
  
“I ate pinapple pizza with Niall yesterday,” Zayn says, breaking the stillness in the room.  
  
Louis gasps, an indignant and hurt expression creeps on his face. He’s sure it’s written somewhere, like, the penal code or the constitution of United States of America, that no man, under any circumstances is ever allowed to consume a pizza with fruit and, not only it condones homicide perpetrated towards the person who commits such horrible and unforgiving act, but it ensures a medal or something between those lines.  
  
“You didn’t,” Louis pleads, and it should be embarrassing really, which it is, but--  
  
Zayn looks at him, challenging, maybe, twists the door handle, and walks out.  
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
Half an hour later he realizes Zayn just walked out of his own flat and left Louis there.  
  
He goes to Paolo’s and orders three pizzas.  
  
That night he cries. Just a little bit.  
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
So Louis is moping.  
  
Like, he’s not even sure if what he’s been doing in the past three days is moping or some sort of miserable and generally depressing attitude but whatever.  
  
It would be highly stupid and inconsiderate of Louis not to show ostentatious demonstration of grief and suffering for the loss of his lover in such a short time and in circumstances somewhat questionable and unconvincing, if not ridiculous, right?  
  
Late that night when Liam comes in, Louis is banging his head against the wall of the kitchen.  
  
“What are you doing?” Liam asks tentatively while entering the room.  
  
Louis bangs his head twice more, then stops. “I’m trying to get my brain to auto-induce a perennial catalepsy and convince my neurons to join in a mass suicide so I can stop thinking about Zayn,” he answers, with a touch of seraphic that he hopes hints to a current mental stability - or lack thereof - at the verge of crumbling.  
  
“Listen Lou. I know you fucked up, but Zayn loves you and you still can fix this.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“I don’t know babe. But don’t give up on Zayn because you are too afraid to let him know how you feel.” Liam kisses him on the cheek, patting his head in what Louis assumes is reassurance.  
  
“Do you think I could substitute him with ice-cream?”  
  
Liam taps his finger on his lip like he’s actually putting coherent thoughts on the issue. “Well, it depends.”  
  
“Like, with a quintal of dark chocolate ice-cream with caramelized strawberries, whipped cream and melted nutella on top?”  
  
Liam’s moan comes to his ears too late to stop it, and with a pained expression Liam says “oh fuck, I think I just got hard.”  
  
 _“Liam!_ ”  
  
They end up taking puffs from a joint of shitty weed they scoped off of Niall two days ago and raiding their fridge once munchies starts knocking at the door.  
  
When Liam steps out of the flat an hour and five cans of beer later, the air is painted with pitch blackness and the moon is tucked high in the sky.  
  
He’s really, really miserable and he knows that it’s all his fault because he has some serious issues with normal demonstration of affection towards people he cares about because—well.  
  
He can’t pinpoint the moment when this need to build up walls became so incessant, when it started to feel so necessary to resort to this sort of defense mechanism that operates whenever things like _feelings_ come within a 50 feet radius from him and pushes him to behave like a pantagruelic piece of shit.  
  
This slow, gradual descent into sassiness and aloofness to conceal a fragility he’s not willing to show to anyone else, not even himself.  
  
And even though he knows that the normal concept of ordinary healthy relationship might not have applied to them, the feelings that presuppose it are undeniable. He resolves that, starting tomorrow – or maybe just sometime vaguely soon – he’s going to do something.  
  
Like, something big and definitely cool, like drying his hair pink or starting doing Zumba.  
  
Or maybe man up and go talk to Zayn.  
  
   
  
So pink hair it is.  
  
   
  
-  
  
   
  
Two weeks have passed and Louis is still stuck with moping.  
  
He did actually come to the realization that what he’s doing would be better defined with embarrassingly and pathetically being hung up on a guy who clearly is unrealistically too beautiful and sexy to settle for someone as average as Louis but his brain doesn’t seem to get the gist.  
  
It’s okay, it’s not a big deal. Louis is used to people not returning his feelings, which is kind of a lie per se, because Louis has never truly liked a person so much they could really hurt him once they got tired of him and his crap.  
  
He has to admit he did find a good remedy to mend his broken heart, which to make it quick means that he simply stuffs his face with tons of pizza and other greasy food and drown his tears in litres and litres of beer.  
  
Not very good for his health, and sure as hell his tummy is begging for mercy, but effective nonetheless.  
  
At that’s why he’d finding himself sprawled lifeless on his couch on a random Friday night, baggy sweatpants hanging low on his waist and hair shoved into a beanie, ketchup staining his cheeks and crumbs littered all over his stomach. Once discovered how overrated social life is, his existence got definitely better.  
  
“Lou, I know you are heartbroken and all, but soap really didn’t do anything to you. So could please shower and get out of this flat?”  
  
“Now, now Liam, why would I do that?”  
  
“Harry’s coming over,” he says tightly, and this explains why Liam bitched the living shit out of him for two extenuating hours this morning to make him tide the mess he made in the kitchen when he had tried to make cupcakes without a supervisor.  
  
The outcomes had been quite near to catastrophic, to be honest.  
  
"Oh,” he says flatly, wiping his mouth of the remnant of crumbs with the back of his hand.  
  
Louis doesn’t really know why Liam puts up with him. How he has been physically able to live for five goddamned years with someone as messy and socially awkward as Louis, a person who managed to break three plates the first – and last- time he was in charge of the dishes and who still doesn’t know how their microwave oven bloody works.  
  
“He just sent me a message to tell me Zayn has just gone out to Paolo’s to grab something for dinner. Do with this information the hell you want Lou,” he says, with that sort of calm that makes Louis love him just that little bit more.  
  
He’s almost already out of the flat before he even has time to process it, but stops long enough to turn to Liam and say “thanks," trying to ignore the fact that he probably looks insane right now. "I'll, um. Thanks. Okay. I'd stay and like, talk, but I need to - Zayn?"  
  
Liam's smirking. Louis decides that he probably hates him.  
  
He arrives at Paolo’s panting like an idiot, and his lungs must have definitely collapsed a mile or two into the run. As he pushes the door opened, he spots Zayn hunched on a stool over the counter, pitch black hair hanging loosely over his eyes. He raises his head to the door and startles once he sees Louis, and he’s so beautiful, always so beautiful it hurts Louis’ soul.  
  
They eyes lock for what feels like an eternity, before Zayn hops off the stool, shakes his head and moves past him to walk out.  
  
“Zayn, wait,” he calls, but Zayn doesn’t stop, ducks his head and steps out the door.  
  
His legs start moving before he even realizes it. The chill of the early spring air bites harshly at his skin, wind scratching at his bare throat. He reaches for Zayn, grabs his arm to stop him and even when Zayn turns around abruptly, eyes angry and yet still sad, Louis feels his legs turning into jell-o.  
  
“What? What the hell do you want Louis?”  
  
“Listen Zayn, I know I fucked up. But that’s what I do. I fuck up. I fuck up all the time, so I don’t blame you if you don’t want to have anything to do with me. Like, yeah it sucks, what with the fact I’m in love with you and all that, but I understand, really and--- Zayn?”  
  
Zayn is sort of just staring at him with a shocked face, mouth hanging open, jaw gone slack.  
  
“You are not wearing shoes.”  
  
Well, this explains why they are so cold. “Yeah.”  
  
“You are in love with me.”  
  
Oh. _Oh._  
  
“I—what?”  
  
“You. You said you are in love with me.”  
  
“Yeah Zayn. I did. Could you not focus on the details right now please I—“  
  
Zayn slaps him square on the head. Like, really bloody hard. _Goddammit_ , that hurt.  
  
“It’s not a fucking detail, you moron!” Zayn shouts, throwing both hands in the air in exasperation.  
  
Louis spreads his arms as to say so what and then “what? Are you like, surprised?”  
  
“Yes? You never told me.”  
  
“I thought it was obvious.”  
  
Zayn’s eyes go wide and incredulous before he says “obvious? Obvious? We broke up because I told you I ate pineapple pizza Louis, I don’t—“  
  
“—please, tell me you didn’t.”  
  
“Louis--”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Zayn huffs out a quivering breath, shaking his head at the surrealism of this situation. “No, I didn’t.”  
  
Louis finally lets out the breath he’s been holding since he asked the question. “Thank _God_ ,” he mutters before he pounces on Zayn, winding both legs around his waist, threads his hands through Zayn’s hair and kisses the living shit out of him.  
  
They stumbled inside Zayn’s flat five minutes later, hands inside their pants and jeans shoved down around their thighs. They don’t even make it to the bedroom, falling over in the middle of the living room with Louis straddling Zayn’s hips and grinding like a maniac down against Zayn’s dick.  
  
They come embarrassingly fast, both cocks fisted inside Zayn’s slick hand, panting against each other’s mouth as they ride their orgasm out. Louis slumps against Zayn’s flushed chest, biting his neck and trying to catch his breath back.  
  
Whoever invented make-up sex should win a Nobel. Or like, _something._  
  
The post-orgasmic haze is abruptly disrupted as someone starts clapping above them.  
  
Niall’s pretty little face pokes from the back of the couch, expression a weird mixture between completely impressed and a bit of you-just-scarred- my-little-innocence-forever.  
  
“That was _awesome_!” he says, bouncing like an eager puppy on the couch and looking expectantly at the both of them.  
  
A heavy silence settles in the little room, only the buzzing of the fridge comes rushing back to their ears. This probably marks the lowest point in his short existence Louis could manage to reach with so little effort. How will he even be able to look at Niall in the eyes ever again? This sucks for so many reasons he is even afraid to dwell on.  
  
They have to kill him. Hide his mangled body somewhere secret, or like, in Liam’s car and then blame him.  
  
“Can I have a bis?” comes Niall’s tiny voice after a while.  
  
   
  
Definitely to kill.  
  
   
  
   
  
_  
  
   
  
 _They get married in the spring._  
  
 _It’s a small ceremony, families and few childhood friends clustered in a tiny ancient church, white flowers and pale rose ribbons littered everywhere. Louis’ mum took upon her to organize the whole thing, and they couldn’t find the strength to remind them they are men and very much manly, thank you very much._  
  
 _He remembers how Zayn’s eyes looked when he walked down the aisle, bright and so beautiful under the feeble sunlight brushing across his face, stained with tears and redness up his cheeks._  
  
 _They finally come around having the first baby in July, after months and months of tears and sleepless nights, Louis curling around Zayn in their warm bed, crisp sheets rumpled at their feet._  
  
 _She’s called Evelyn, she has hazel eyes and strawberry blond hair._  
  
“Louis?”  
  
 _Ian comes later, with his pudgy little face covered in freckles and bright red hair. Zayn cries for forty minutes the first time he calls him ‘daddy’, and cries even more that night when he says it again._  
  
“Louis.”  
  
 _It’s Ian and Evelyn, and the house feels warmer, louder too. It’s like feeling it enclosing on them, being a bit more like home, holding far more memories than these walls can keep on their bare surfaces._  
  
 _And it’s Zayn. Always Zayn, with his crooked smile and gentle eyes, with his cigarette first thing in the morning and kisses that taste like summer, like an always warmer winter, like--_  
  
“Louis!”  
  
Louis shakes his head and turns to Zayn. “Yeah?”  
  
“You were doing that again,” he says fondly, wiping his paint-stained hands on a cloth as he moves away from the wall he’s been spray-painting for the whole afternoon.  
  
“Errr--what?”  
  
Zayn snorts, doing that stupid crooked smile where he pushes his tongue against his teeth that he knows always leads to the both of them in a tangle of sweaty bodies and shed clothes scattered around them on the floor. Louis might hate him a bit.  
  
“Spacing-out looking at me with parted lips like you want to eat me,” Zayn grins wickedly, licks his bottom lip, and Louis really, really hates him.  
  
“Ah,” he breathes out, scratching absent-mindedly at his chin as he tries to look nonchalantly.  
  
“You were day-dreaming again about us marrying, werent’t you?” Zayn laughs and Louis pouts.  
  
“No,” he lies, snorting, as if the mere thought was ridiculous. Because like, it is.  
  
Zayns smiles, and Louis knows he’s having none of his crap, takes his hand, says “c’mon,” and leads him into their kitchen.  
  
They both look down with adoringly and watery eyes at their creation.  
  
“It’s our baby, Lou. She’s so beautiful.” He sniffs, once, twice, then “I love you so much.”  
  
“Me too babe.”  
  
They stare down at her for so long it seems forever, squeezing each other’s hands reassuringly.  
  
“Do you think we could name her Evelyn?”  
  
“Dunno. Guess we could.” Zayn moves a hand to poke at her with a finger. “Would you like it honey?”  
  
The fuming margherita with some fresh basil leaves on top doesn’t do much as to properly respond.  
  
They take it as a yes anyway.  
  
   
  
   
  
 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [poopydoopylou](http://http://poopydoopylou.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr


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